


Bloodlines

by Koepplin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: MCiT, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Reincarnation, again - lore fuckery? headcanony and possible oocness, amnesia (partial)??, itchy fingers, kinda sorta, lots of poetics!, mc is mucho extra, might take a while to meet the cast, much i am confusion, origin story of mcit included, possible future romance?? hMmm, purely self-gratification, slow story, will get clearer hopefully...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koepplin/pseuds/Koepplin
Summary: "This is purely for my own satisfaction."





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is gonna take a while

**1.**

  
Tongs, My dear stupid Tongs. (Stupid name. Could you have possibly picked anything worse.)

But what else would I call her? Did she have a progenitor? Just as she is mine? Dare I say that I am not the only one of my kind? What kind I would not know. Only that they have abandoned me. What use is a name? To anyone?

I am an unbeliever. I pray and don’t believe in god. Names have lost meaning. Only existing for a need for simplicity – what was it? Duality of man? Delectable simplicity. Dark and light; man and woman; good and evil. Mages and Templars. Tongs and I (not-Tongs). This is a game. In fiction, now in the flesh. We exist.

Tongs knows not when she was born, only that I -we- have always existed. I imagine there was a time when the world felt new, but for all that I’ve forgotten; nostalgia is an old friend. So clear to feeling, yet vanished from the banks of memory. Like an old joke. It brought us together. I felt it. When it all spiralled down in light speed. Or perhaps it had always been and I’ve become slower – then. Or now. Perhaps there is no name for such a thing. Maybe I am – nothing.

Anyway, duality of man – yes. An effort to reshape the world to suit our understanding, our need to fit, coalesce into what we desire. People are insipidly simple in the most complicated ways. Reality shifts to suit our world view. Life and death. Sleep and wakefulness. Separation is an illusion, Dreams bridge two worlds. We find completion in chaos. Slumber reigns.

None of this – is real. All of this – is limbo.

Tongs would understand.

I have many names.

But none constitute the makings of – me.

The day that marries the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> edited 29/7

**2.**

All things begin.

I was born from a Mother who slept.

Lady Barbachollo’s body was a shell; soul and spirit withered. Sundered from the heavens. Shuffle off this mortal coil.

The joke was that she didn’t fare much better when she was alive.

Such were the smallest of the Maker’s mercies when she was rendered comatose. Her dowry may have bought her weight in diamonds, but despite her unparalleled beauty - she was not born under duress. The jewel of the sullen sands, forsaken by the love of Lord Pandolfo of House Aristide. There was no beauty in her struggle, only in that she no longer did.

Now she laps up elfroot like a torpid dog. A silver spoon dangled like a bell – dripping a temporary solution upon her lips. A melting pot of poultices and potions. Magic. Jazz hands. Look upon her atrophied limbs, the skeletal likeness to her body – the living death!

As a child I was sorely tempted to bang sticks on the keys of her ribcage like a morbid xylophone. Flip her eyelids, watch them flutter like castanets and bare her eyes – blank. I imagined – like a dead fish. What difference does it make. Dead she may be.

Escaped from lifelong obligations – maybe not.

Mother dearest still performed her perfunctory duties as was required of her; puppeteered to perform. Posed in aesthetic angles upon a chair at dinner, on the lounge draped across her husband, mostly in bed like a broken doll.

Doll-faced, porcelain – in her bed of frills, lace and ruffle cascading like waves of an ocean. Swaddled like a child. Her wrists were thin as her ankles, and her curls burned like rings of fire. She was poetry personified. Call upon the angels and none shall answer – they will not come for they are already here. For it is she who resides at the Maker’s side.

For all the grandiose sermons Pandolfo pledged to her (one he preached frequently to the benevolent ire of the local Chantry); he kept her body clandestine. As though it would break the spell he had weaved.

The maids grip each others’ elbows whisper and titter of his “deep regret” – quickly hushed as though it would singe tongues. Every whisper, murmur, mumble and mutter: echoed the hallowed halls like crickets. Loud silences. As the years went on he grew more possessive, paranoid; hiding her in the shrines of his despair. More secrets. Open secrets.

There were always gaps in the doors though, big enough to slither a few fingers in. I could keep one eye cracked open – I saw it all.

Her body: upon the alter.

Crowned by swollen beams of blue moonlight splintered by red stained glass – staining her corpse-like charade as though freshly emerged from blood. As though newly born. A baptised martyr. All shades of a setting sun that sunk into a somnolent sea. Curls of incense would rise like the smoke of a choking fire.

The chapel. Where her body was kept – when he worshipped her in the dark.

At night her breaths would whistle in her throat as my father held her tight. Silhouettes merging and molding inhumanly against the backdrop of a starry night. Every night, my father would hold her; feel her heartbeat under his fingers as he touched her. Yearning for the gaze of the divine he so covetously wanted to be a part of.

Still. She never awoke. But I did. 

I have never seen her eyes, yet my father found her in me.

As if I sweated gold, frankincense and myrrh. Held in his hands as sacrosanct in the most discreet ways. Another doll in his dollhouse.

His eyes mouldering with the unquenchable and the nameless.

 

 

 

My Father, the one who Was-Not-Always-Mad. Only Mad- _der_. His Maddest? His Maddesty: the poor fool, foolish in love.

In such times, one can only pity the self-made madman. To what extent is any such devotion not mad anyway? To give yourself fully to something you’ve never seen? I have not seen any such Maker. What’s wrong with a little madness? In a world that does not stoop to you? In a way, aren’t we all Makers? Our reality is our own making. In the way a fish thinks it’s stupid for not being able to climb a tree. Or – that their wife died for a higher purpose, not a senseless one.

My father was soft. His will was strong. It takes one to be mad in a mad world. And such worlds are full of perverts. _Mirar y ver – mirar y ver!_ Roll up, roll up. We are here to entertain at your pleasure! Ah – to sob, gasp and squeal, to inhale the dust of our labours!

What must it be like – warm? Clothes on your back. In your bed. The world at your fingertips.

I was you once.

But I digress.

 

 

  

It started with a degree of fanaticism. A lick of fantasy in his tales. Stories that bloat deep in the sinews of bones; gems lost to a withering mind. Craters on a moon, holes in swiss cheese, cavities in teeth. A neglected world riddled by forgetfulness.

As long as Mother sleeps, the world forgets. It disappears in her absence and we are left with a dream. Stuck in the inbetween, she tied a piano wire to his brain to pluck gospel truths; and thus he was completing the Maker’s work. He believed – he was a prophet. It was his duty to awaken the world again.

None of it made sense – but nonetheless coalesced into something all to clear to feeling. We’ve all experienced loss in some form or another. And perhaps that was why he was loved.

His speeches garnered all kinds of attention – _preaches_. A hereditary verbal tick. I joke – it’s a learned flaw. Or perhaps a virtuous one. To chat shit. I find myself regurgitating his words, as if he was inside me all along. (Or she. He finds _her_ in me after all.) I take from him still, even now. _¡Gracias!_ My poor _papa_ ¸ he spoils me still!

He loved me, and he made sure of it.


End file.
